John hated it. He hated all the death; the killing. Of course, he was acclimatized to such situations, and had seen a lot of dead bodies in his lifetime, but it was something he could just never really 'get used to.' The smell, the sight of dull and lifeless eyes—perhaps the thing that disturbed John most was the fact that each one who had ever lay dead before his had a life. People would miss them, cry about their death—the dead already had stories left untold.

Soo Lin Yao was young. Too young.

John's eyes fluttered as he stepped backwards several feet- the scent of fresh blood and gunpowder filling his nostrils, very much uninvited. He couldn't look at the body for too long. Hole in the temple of the beautiful young woman, bleeding readily. He shut his eyes tightly; he wanted to forget.

Stupid! Why didn't she stay put where I told her? John had to blame someone, and he wasn't quite ready to blame himself. He was angry; disappointed. The warmth of tears in his eyes was entirely unwarranted. They came and rolled down his cheeks, however, and John grew increasingly irritated. His hands were dead cold, but his face was hot. His head swam, and he felt like he was crawling within his own skin. His heart plunged uncontrollably as if it was on a tiny ship in a perfect storm. When blinking heavily no longer sufficed to keep the tears back, he dabbed furiously at his eyes with the heel of his palm. He felt his cold, clammy hand against his hot face.

He was alive. Why was he alive? He was supposed to have protected Soo Lin, but left her to chase after Sherlock; to make sure his colleague, and friend, wasn't shot.

If Sherlock hadn't gone running off so suddenly...

John bit his lip. No, that was unfair. He had no reason to blame Sherlock, whatsoever. It was his own fault, he had failed to protect her; to save her, just as he had occasionally failed when he was an army doctor, a mortally wounded comrade placed before him. It wasn't entirely his fault, no, but he couldn't go without blaming himself anyway—that just how it was.

John breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. He had failed this time, but he wouldn't next. He would do whatever it took—he was protective by nature. No, he wouldn't fail by Sherlock, never. He'd readily give his own life to keep the man safe, he decided. They were comrades in this new and terrifying battlefield they'd both thrown themselves into. He'd die to keep Sherlock safe.

Sherlock stood silently in the shadows, his brain processing madly. He had stumbled in on a very upset John, but hid himself from sight. He wasn't good with 'comforting,' anyhow. He couldn't understand how a man who had no doubt killed many times before without an ounce of remorse, was so upset of the death of just one girl.

Sherlock's mind folded itself up, like a note that students would pass around the classroom hoping their teachers wouldn't read. He folded it up, and threw it away. He didn't want to remember this. Erase it, Sherlock. You don't need this memory. He tried, but couldn't. He needed to remember this. Needed to remember what having a heart looked like. Maybe someday, with a bit of work, he could be a fraction of the man John was- the heart he was. He considered, curiously, what that might look like.

His head cleared instantly. Only one thing, one revelation, rang out inside his mind:

The brain can't function without the heart.